[EP10] Keep Crying. We Got You.
What you said hurt, but what you meant hurt more.
Note: For readers new to the mansion, each of the eight voices you’ll meet in this Session represents an archetypal part of the internal family system (IFS). These characters form a mythic council inside my psyche. Some protect. Some feel. Some process. Some burn it all down and start again.
The identities placed after each name like "The Conductor" or "The Comedian" offer a custom label from my own psyche, reflecting their unique energy and role in the internal system. Together, they form the full emotional constellation of my-Self. You don’t need to know IFS to feel it. But if you do? You’ll recognize the exiles, managers, and firefighters by how they speak. And how they hurt.
[Scene opens in the Sanctum. Candles flicker. There is a note on the velvet altar table, handwritten in rushed, angular ink. No one admits to placing it there. A hush hangs in the air, thick as incense.]
Trevor (The Conductor): [Approaches the table, picks up the note, and reads it aloud—crisp and unyielding]
"Your life sounds so miserable, why don’t you go out and do something worth writing about."
[The words land like a slap. For one beat, just one, everyone in the room clenches. Jaw, fist, throat, breath. No one moves. Not even Dion.]
Trevor (The Conductor): [Straightening his posture, as if realigning reality] Efficient. Cruel. Structurally precise. The comma placement, however, is infuriating.
Dion (The Comedian): [Slouched across a velvet couch, eyes glittering with dangerous glee] Oh, I love it. I want to tattoo it on my inner thigh just to remind myself what projection tastes like.
Kurt (The Curator): [Already standing. Already scowling. Arms crossed like granite] Is this one of those things I’m not supposed to punch?
Casper (The Casanova): [Smirking, swirling a drink that appeared from nowhere] I’ve sexted myself worse.
Cyril (The Concierge): [Quietly moves the tea tray three inches closer to Nels. Doesn't sit. Doesn’t speak. Yet…]
Nels (The Counselor): [Bows his head, eyes closed, hand on heart] They’re not trying to hurt us. They’re trying not to drown.
Artie (The Creator): [Gone. Slipped into the walls. A faint scratch of charcoal can be heard from the other room.]
Lenny (The Collector): [Silent. Reading the ink like it’s a crime scene. He nods once, like he’s confirmed a theory.]
[Candles flicker again. No breeze. Just breath. No one says it aloud. But something sharp behind the joke has started to ache. The bravado has cracked. Dion's robe hangs a little heavier. Kurt's fists aren't clenched anymore, but his jaw is. Nels walks toward the altar.]
Trevor (The Conductor): [Flipping open his monogramed notebook] This isn’t critique. It’s fear wrapped in imperative tone. They’re not asking for better stories. They’re begging for permission to feel something again.
Dion (The Comedian): [Stretches like a cat, then freezes, a softness leaking through the mask] I wanted to mock it. Turn it into erotica. Say, 'Come fuck me and find out what misery really feels like.' But then I heard it, that ache. Like someone raised to believe crying was for the weak.
Nels (The Counselor): [Gentle. Reverent. Voice lower than before] It sounded like a child pounding on the door of silence. They called us miserable. But what I heard was: ‘please don’t leave me behind.’
Kurt (The Curator): [Pacing now. Fists unclenched. Barely] I was ready to throw the table. Then I looked at Artie’s chair. Empty. And I thought, what if that voice was him, in another timeline, and nobody stopped to say, 'hey kid... you okay?'
Artie (The Creator): [Reappears quietly. Holding a sketch] I drew a hand... holding a heart... made of broken clocks. I think... I think they ran out of time to be soft.
Cyril (The Concierge): [Sits. Finally. With precision and intent] I started writing them a letter. Drafted three versions. Then I made tea. Then I sat in the hallway and realized: I used to be them. Bitter. Brilliant. Starving. No one noticed the hunger, just the bite.
Casper (The Casanova): [Softer now. Mask slightly cracked] God, I know that flavor. I wore it. Sprayed it on like cologne. If you hit first, they can’t hit your hope. But hope’s the thing that wants to be hit just to see if it’ll survive.
Lenny (The Collector): [Voice quiet. Precise] They’ve written this sentence before. Not to us. To others. Always creators. Always soft ones. The data points are clear: They don’t hate what we wrote. They hate what it reminds them they never let themselves say.
[No one speaks. Nels rises, takes the note, and places it beside a bowl of stones on the altar. Artie lights a candle. Cyril pours one last cup of tea and leaves it untouched on the tray. The room doesn’t breathe. It listens.]
Nels (The Counselor): [Whispers, as if saying it for all of them] Keep crying. We got you.
[The candle crackles. No one moves. The mansion holds it. And we let it echo.]
End Session.